


the mind's eye

by queerli



Series: Aziraphale Has OCD [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has OCD, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Character(s) of Color, Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Panic Attacks, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Self-Esteem Issues, Wings, and Crowley comforts him, author has OCD, this fic is basically just
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-06-25 17:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19750174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerli/pseuds/queerli
Summary: [Aziraphale] tried to focus on Crowley, sitting at the opposite end of the table across from him. It was more difficult than he expected, like some part of his mind wasn’t yet fully there. He could only process fragments of the whole picture – Crowley’s thin fingers wrapped around the stem of the wine-glass, his tie slightly loosened, Aziraphale’s own reflection in the glossy surface of Crowley’s sunglasses. He couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes like this, but the way Crowley leaned forward to peer more closely at him had a concerned air.“Are you alright?” he said. “You seem a bit… out of it.”(Or: intrusive thoughts and crowded restaurants aren't a good mix.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I entered the Good Omens fandom during one of the worst periods of my mental illness and I latched onto Aziraphale like a limpet to a rock. 
> 
> I'm doing a lot better now! But Aziraphale with OCD is a headcanon I've toyed with for a long while, and I finally decided to try my hand at writing something about it.
> 
> Warnings for descriptions of OCD, panic attacks, and intrusive thoughts - I don't describe the content of the intrusive thoughts, but Aziraphale does react negatively to them.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale startled, clattering his fork against his plate. “Yes, my dear?” he said hurriedly as he sat up straight in his chair. “I’m so sorry, I must have drifted away for a moment. What was it you were saying?”

He tried to focus on Crowley, sitting at the opposite end of the table across from him. It was more difficult than he expected, like some part of his mind wasn’t yet fully there. He could only process fragments of the whole picture – Crowley’s thin fingers wrapped around the stem of the wine-glass, his tie slightly loosened, Aziraphale’s own reflection in the glossy surface of Crowley’s sunglasses. He couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes like this, but the way Crowley leaned forward to peer more closely at him had a concerned air.

“Are you alright?” he said. “You seem a bit… out of it.”

Aziraphale smiled weakly. “Just a little too much wine, I think,” he said, hiding his grimace behind his napkin. “Please, do continue.”

Crowley studied him for a moment longer. “If you say so,” he said, a trifle dubiously. He launched back into his retelling of that one time in ancient China, when he’d sidled up to a scholar’s side and pointed out that hey, the number six in Chinese sounded awfully similar to the Chinese word for 'flowing', and wouldn’t it make a nifty pun if you combined three sixes together to mean 'everything goes smoothly'? 

It really was quite the amusing story, and Aziraphale did try to listen, but it was like there was a faint buzz rising at the back of his mind, melding with the chatter of the diners around them and forming into insidious little voices that whispered vile things into his ears that he did not want to hear. Aziraphale sucked in a breath and discreetly moved his chair closer to the table, trying to zero in on Crowley’s face and voice. It worked, for a moment. For a moment it was all fine, and they were simply Aziraphale and Crowley, dining at the Ritz one lovely summer evening, free from all worries and superiors breathing down their necks. Crowley’s voice became comprehensible again as he enthused about “that fellow Chao who wrote the poem about the lion-eating poet in the stone den, you would’ve _loved_ him, angel –”

Aziraphale’s gaze drifted past the curve of Crowley’s throat, which of course was when his thrice-accursed imagination decided to bombard his mind’s eye with a – _well._ A thoroughly unpleasant image that sent a shudder of pure revulsion down Aziraphale’s spine. _Stop it_ , he thought furiously at this intrusion. _I would_ never _do such a thing_ – but no. There was no use arguing against it; he would only risk losing himself further in his head if he persisted. He stared fixedly at the tablecloth, but the buzzing thoughts in his head only grew louder. _Be quiet_ , he snapped back at his mind before he could stop himself. The next breath he drew caught tight in his chest, and never mind the fact that he didn’t strictly _need_ to breathe, the frustration and disgust and faint panic that it caused seemed to clog his throat and crawl beneath his skin like so many ants. He tugged at his tie, which suddenly felt far too tight around his neck.

“–ziraphale? Hey, Az?”

Aziraphale jumped at the gentle press of fingers against his shoulder. Crowley was somehow standing beside him, bending down to peer anxiously into his face. His dark glasses slipped down, revealing a flash of wide yellow eyes.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale muttered, trying not to gulp too audibly. “I’m so sorry, let me just –” He tried to rise, but Crowley stopped him.

“Sorry, hold on. I have to call for the bill, but do you want to go wait in the car or sit here for a while longer?”

Aziraphale blinked, momentarily stunned out of his turmoil. “The bill? But, Crowley, we haven’t even finished our –”

Only, when he looked over at their table and at his own nearly-full plate, the last remnants of his appetite shriveled up and died, leaving a vague queasiness behind. He glanced at the chattering diners all around them, crowded and noisy and bright and everywhere at once. Always moving, never stopping. It was just… too fast. All too fast and all at once, and Aziraphale was dimly aware of Crowley rubbing his shoulders as he hunched over, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to steady his breathing.

It took a few tense moments, but eventually he was composed enough to look back up at Crowley, who had taken Aziraphale’s hand in his. Crowley tentatively wound their fingers together, tawny against warm brown, and it was an anchor amidst the churning storm of Aziraphale’s thoughts. 

“We can stay, if you want to,” Crowley said quietly, “but I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Aziraphale took another shuddering breath and nodded. “I can wait here while you get the bill,” he managed. “Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s fingers, then turned to wave for a waiter. Aziraphale focused on pulling his suddenly-refilled teacup over, letting the heated ceramic settle his nerves and recognizing Crowley’s particular touch in the faint whiff of peppermint that rose from the tea’s surface. Soon Crowley was draping Aziraphale’s camelhair coat over his shoulders and wrapping a protective arm around him, leading them both towards the door, while Aziraphale stared down at the tiles and blinked away the horrifying images that flickered behind his eyelids.

The Bentley was parked illegally on the curb outside, though it had been sitting all the way down the street only a minute before. Once out in the cool night air, away from the crowds, Aziraphale’s hands flew back to his collar, and Crowley helped him gently tug his tie loose until he breathed more easily. Then they were driving sedately down Piccadilly under the watery yellow glow of the street-lamps, and if the roads seemed unusually empty of people for this time of night, neither of them mentioned it. 

Aziraphale pressed his cheek against the Bentley’s window. The glass was cold against his skin, and a relief after the crowded warmth of the restaurant. The radio hummed softly with the refrain of _Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy_ , a welcome distraction from his muddled brain.

“Your place or mine?” Crowley asked softly.

After an evening like this, all he longed for were the comforting walls of his shop. “The bookshop, if it isn’t too much trouble,” he mumbled, eyes closed.

Cloth rustled, and Crowley’s hand stole back into his. “You’re never a trouble, angel. We’ll be home soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may end up adding to this fic/concept, but we'll see. 
> 
> btw, the things about China that Crowley mentions are very real. The number 666 is considered a lucky number since it sounds similar to the Chinese word 流, meaning "flowing", and three (or a bunch) of sixes put together can mean "everything goes smoothly", or just general good luck vibes.
> 
> "The Lion-Eating Poet in the Stone Den" is a real Chinese poem by the linguist Chao Yuen Ren. Feel free to google the verses!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is always much appreciated. You can also find my writing on my GO sideblog @ethereal-not-occult on tumblr.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They arrive back home, but there are still things left to discuss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I cut off the previous chapter at that final line, feeling that it was a fitting ending place, but I ended up expanding a bit more on the passages that didn't make it into the last chapter. So now there's a whole new chapter, lol.
> 
> Warnings for depictions of OCD, anxiety/panic attacks, self-loathing, etc. There's plenty of comfort, though, because that's how I roll.

As he usually got after such episodes, Aziraphale felt muzzy and slow when they pulled up at the bookshop door. Crowley was a reassuringly solid presence as he helped Aziraphale out of the Bentley, and when they finally made it to the sofa in the bookshop’s back room, he knelt down in front of Aziraphale and took the angel’s hand. 

“All right?” he asked eventually, searching Aziraphale’s gaze. His sunglasses had long since been discarded on the coffee table. 

Aziraphale catalogued himself. He felt steadier but still shaky, and had the beginnings of a headache pounding at his temples. He tried to miracle the pain away, but it stubbornly persisted. “Not really,” he said, looking away.

Crowley ran his thumb over the back of Aziraphale’s hand. “Anything I can do to help?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Not really. One simply has to wait it out.”

Crowley settled on the sofa beside him and slipped an arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders. Aziraphale accepted this invitation to curl into Crowley’s side and press his face into Crowley’s neck. He was suddenly exhausted, which likely contributed to the sudden hot flush of tears down his cheeks. Crowley’s pulse sped up, but he didn’t show it outwardly, only rubbing Aziraphale’s back and occasionally nuzzling into his dark curls to press comforting kisses upon his head. 

Aziraphale soon cried himself out, and found himself resting against Crowley’s chest as the demon lay back on the settee. Some part of him thought he ought to be embarrassed after such an emotional display, but the rest of him was too tired to care. 

Crowley stirred beneath him. “Angel?”

Aziraphale lifted his head, and saw Crowley watching him with immeasurable fondness and a hint of worry in his yellow eyes. 

“D’you mind if I try something?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Try what?”

“I want to make you feel better. Thought this might help.”

Crowley sat up, and Aziraphale let himself be gently pushed to one end of the settee. One moment they were sitting there side by side, and the next, Crowley was shaking out a pair of massive white wings that stirred up the dust of the bookshop, gleaming faintly in the gloom. Aziraphale’s mouth went dry, but he managed a faint, “Oh.”

Carefully, moving slowly enough so Aziraphale could stop him if he wanted to, Crowley stretched out one wing to encircle Aziraphale’s shoulders in a cloak of sleek feathers. It was a bit of a tight squeeze, all crowded together on the sofa as they were, but closeness was what Aziraphale needed right now. He leaned into Crowley’s side with a gusty sigh and allowed himself to be enfolded in white.

“I feel so — so _foolish,_ ” he admitted into Crowley’s neck. “The Apocalypse didn’t happen. Heaven and Hell are off our backs. We no longer have anything to fear, so why in heaven’s name am I still…” He groped for words, and, finding none, could only gesture helplessly at himself, at all he was and all he _wasn’t._

Crowley only tucked his wing in closer, brushing at the dried tears on Aziraphale’s cheeks with one primary feather. “Even a good change can be a lot to deal with. And sometimes these sorts of things don’t need reasons to act up. Kind of just… happens. They’re nasty little buggers like that. Brain gremlins, I call ‘em.”

The absurdity of the phrase made Aziraphale snort a bit, and he felt more than saw Crowley smile into his hair when he succeeded in making Aziraphale laugh. Aziraphale clasped their hands together and held on tight.

“You know I’m not going to judge you, right?” Crowley said into the silence that followed. “Nothing you do could drive me away, unless you asked me to leave you alone.”

Aziraphale clutched him tighter. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I won’t,” Crowley said hastily. “Figure of speech. Just. I’m here to stay, Aziraphale. I chose to stay here, with you, six thousand years ago, and I’m not going to change my mind anytime soon. Or at all, for that matter.”

Despite himself, bitterness rose like bile in Aziraphale’s throat. _Would you still stay if you knew my mind, truly?_ he thought with a sudden self-loathing, deep and cold. _Knew all my doubts and fears and sins, all the terrible things I’ve seen and done, all the terrible things I wanted to do—_

“Aziraphale.” Crowley shook him, gently but insistently. From his worried tone, this wasn’t the first time he’d called Aziraphale’s name. Aziraphale blinked and shuddered, returning to himself in a dizzying rush. He hadn’t even noticed his focus turning inward, blocking out all awareness of the world around him. 

“How long...”

“Only a few seconds,” Crowley said, brow furrowing. Aziraphale could practically hear his unasked question: _Does this happen often?_ The answer was, of course, too often for his liking, but before he could dwell any longer on that, Crowley was moving, turning to face Aziraphale fully and taking hold of both his hands in a tight grip.

“I know you,” Crowley said, with sudden fierceness. “You’re a good person, Aziraphale. No, it’s true,” he insisted when Aziraphale scoffed and looked away, tears once more threatening to fall. “I _know_ you, I’ve known you for centuries, and I promise, unequivocally, that you’re a good person. I don’t care what your brain tells you. Whatever you’re thinking, it doesn't represent who you are or what you believe. ‘S why they’re _intrusive_ thoughts in the first place. Brain gremlins, remember?” Aziraphale let out a watery laugh at that, and Crowley squeezed his hands more tightly. 

“ _‘I’m a good person.’_ Here, you can say it, because it’s true.”

Somehow the laughter, slight as it was, had turned to weeping without his knowledge or consent. Breathing was getting difficult again, but Crowley stroked a hand down Aziraphale’s arm, up and down again, and the touch was grounding. 

“Can’t.” Aziraphale felt choked up. “‘M sorry. I can’t say it yet.” Just the thought of it was enough to make his chest tighten.

“Hey, no, it’s okay. Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.” Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale and held him tight, rocking him slowly. “I can say it for you until you’re ready.”

When the latest bout of emotion had died down, Crowley brushed his lips over Aziraphale’s brow. Aziraphale stayed pressed against Crowley’s chest, breathing in the scent of greenery and the Bentley’s leather seats. 

“I’m sorry that it’s such a hard thing for you to accept,” Crowley said quietly. “But I’ll be here with you, always, and I’ll remind you if you forget.”

“I can’t help but feel weak,” Aziraphale mumbled. “Can’t even have a nice dinner without falling to pieces.”

Crowley tapped him on the nose, a painless yet unexpected gesture that made Aziraphale look up, mildly startled. Crowley leaned in, and Aziraphale closed the distance, meeting soft lips with his own. 

“It’s not a weakness,” Crowley said when they drew apart. “It’s not your fault, and it’s not a flaw or a moral failing or anything like that. It’s just human.”

“Just human,” Aziraphale echoed. He turned the words over in his head. It wasn’t an unpleasant notion.

Crowley pressed their foreheads together with infinite tenderness. “You don’t have to go through this alone, angel. Not anymore.”

“Thank you,” was the whispered response. It was a breathless phrase, shakily delivered but sincerely meant. Somewhere at the back of his mind, the thoughts still hovered like swarms of buzzing, biting mosquitoes, but while he couldn’t be rid of them completely, somehow they were a little easier to ignore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been a little unwell mentally lately (I'm okay! just rather tired and not feeling 100%), so I wrote this to cheer me up. I hope the above isn't too confusing!
> 
> (This fic is also bookverse-based, hence why Crowley has the same wings as Aziraphale. From the novel: _"Contrary to popular belief, the wings of demons are the same as the wings of angels, although they're often better groomed.)"_
> 
> The first time somebody told me I wasn't a bad person because of my mental illness, I couldn't accept it. I'm doing much better now, but there's still some part of me struggling to love myself again. Mental illness is hard, but you're not alone, and you're definitely worthy of love, support, and help, no matter what those brain gremlins try to tell you. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always much appreciated. And as usual, my tumblr is ethereal-not-occult, where you can find more of my GO-related writing.


End file.
